Stoned
by Sunny33
Summary: One shot. Post 4.19. Sam strikes out on a hunt by himself, Dean says he doesn't care. But he does. H/C as standard.


**Stoned**

Every bone, every muscle in my body screamed at him to stop...the energy it took to fend him off just drained and pulled at every fibre of my being. I raised my arm again to defend myself from the blows that rained down on me. This guy just didn't know when to stop. He was mechanical in his actions. Like a machine. 

The man built himself up to his next assault, his ragged mouth screwed into a bitter grimace of hate and determination. I inhaled and drew my head back, then launched myself forward, head butting him back into a flailing, shapeless tangle of arms and legs. With energy renewed, I swung the baseball bat hard, the man's defences pathetic under the utter rage I felt at that moment. I knew when to stop though. Which was more than this spineless dick that lay curled up and unconscious on the floor at my feet did.

The bat bounced onto the floor boards, with an acoustic clatter. Wood against wood. I leant forward, hands on my knees, breathing hard amongst stale air. I squinted around the dimmed, dank room I found myself in. Something under my feet, like crunchy beads. And the smell...I brought up my forearm to try to mask it, and stumbled towards the window where a ragged cloth hung – a weak barrier to the bright sunshine outside. I pulled it down and the sudden glare made me squint. I looked back at the dereliction and decay that littered the room. Syringes, tin foil, candy wrappers, snapped and splintered CD's, a spoon, some bloodied rags...a ripped mattress. Someone's jacket. Sam's jacket.

I pushed myself off the window sill and made my way through to the next room, and my eyes immediately fell onto Sam's body. And there it was...that familiar, fleeting burn in the pit of my stomach I always felt when I saw Sam in danger. Beaten and unconscious and lying in an inner city drugs den pretty much ticked off that box for me right there and then.

He was facing the wall, his head pushed right up against a damp corner. He lay on his side with one arm hanging limply down his back. No shoes, or socks. Just jeans and a t shirt. He looked liked the usual inhabitants of a place like this. I took three strides to reach him, to pull him back from the skirting his face almost rested upon. I rolled him over, pulling his shoulders towards me. I called his name with every breath. I cupped my hand under a bruised and bloodied jawline. I grimaced at the state of his face. The swellings and the grazed skin. His knuckles were raw. He'd been fighting. The blood on his t shirt the proof of the struggle.

"Sam...Sam!" I shouted. I felt the back of his skull and found a huge lump – but no blood. At least there was that. The kid had taken a beating, but then, didn't he always? I pushed the hair away from his face, searching the hairline for significant cuts, but there were only small, puncture type wounds. I gently lifted his lids, his hazel eyes staring blankly back at me. Normal sized pupils. Nice and round. OK, this was actually a good thing. Because, one time, I remembered Dad telling me about the drug dealer that had asked for his help with a poltergeist and how Dad had described him as an ordinary, every day guy, but that his pupils would pin prick whenever he took a hit. Sam's eyes were not pin pricks. At least there was that.

"Sam? Hey...wake up now, man." Why wasn't he waking up? I glanced around the room. Just as littered and desolate as the last one. The smell permeating everything.

This had been Sam's idea. Duff intel on a certain demon's whereabouts and my refusal to go with him had resulted in the very situation we now found ourselves in. Just peachy. I don't even know what made me strike out after him, whether it was gut instinct or just a plain need to see what he was up too, but he'd gone into this house and took too damned long to come out.

I glanced down the rest of him, as he lay limp on my knees. The thought was always with me, but I'd resisted looking at his arms for needle marks. Surely, they wouldn't have. No coked up druggy would ever sacrifice a precious ounce of any sedative to knock out an intruder like Sam...would they? I examined the skin on his arms. Clear, apart from the odd bruise. The odd scratch. No breaches. I exhaled and mentally beat myself for doubting the kid, yet again. Second nature to me now.

"Hey!" I shook him hard, raised my voice. "Sam! Sam! Come on, open your eyes...come on, man, open your eyes now." He had to wake up and soon. Because plan B would be calling an ambulance, and I wasn't sure one would come without a police escort to a place like this. "Sam! Sam, look at me! Open your eyes and look at me now!"

"Hmm...," he groaned. Pulling his mouth into a slow grimace. I lowered him down onto the filthy carpet, and grasped his face with both hands.

"Come on, wake up!" I ordered. "We have to move. Open your eyes for me."

His eyelids began to flutter, then opened at half mast, his gaze resting somewhere over my right shoulder. "Oww!" he croaked.

"Sam? Look at me, hey..." I smoothed the hair away from his forehead, desperate for him to focus on me. To become aware. To operate. To move even.

"Dean," he said, his eyes widening with every blink. And then he made eye contact with me.

"Yeah. It's me. " I lowered my voice.

"It's...it's a coke house," he stated. As if I didn't know.

"Yeah. That's what it is. An easy mistake, huh?" My attempt at sympathy.

His eyes slid shut for a beat, and his brows knitted together. "Cold in here," he gasped. I drew back my hands from his face, and lifted his t shirt just to check for wounds. Just bruises.

"That's because they stole your shoes. And your socks."

"Aw, what?"

I slid my arm across his shoulders and began to prop him up. He sat up with a groan, his eyes blinking against the glare from the window. He sat on the dirt laden carpet, his legs in front of him like a toddler on a grass lawn, waiting for me to come back into the room with his jacket.

"My gun?" he croaked as I draped his jacket around his shoulders.

"Gone. Probably holding up a gas station as we speak," I quipped. My improved humour probably showed my relief, but I didn't care. "So. Can we go now?" I stood looking down at him. Limp arms resting on blood spattered jeans.

"What made you change your mind?" He looked up at me. God, I missed him then. Missed him so much. Searching back, back through the months and hunts and the nightmares, and the fights...when was the last time Sam had actually looked up at me and asked me such a simple, innocent question? I stumbled over the answer. Opened my mouth to speak...the words forming in my brain, but something stopped me from actually saying it.

_I thought you were going to meet Ruby. I thought you were going to throw yourself at Lilith and die trying to kill her. I didn't mean it when I said I didn't care what you did. I still care_.

Still he waited. Find the alternative, Dean. Don't spill your guts out now. Not now, man.

"Oh...just my spidey senses at their peak. You know how it is for us super heroes. It's a bind. It is." I smiled. Convincingly, I hoped.

He lowered his eyes and nodded with a gentle snort. And then he moved to stand up. I ghosted a hand at his elbow, trying not to touch him, but ready if he'd faltered. He stretched his back and stood up at last.

"Watch your feet," I scanned the carpet for needles and glass.

"Yes, Mom," he mumbled, and we both picked our way towards the door.

THE END


End file.
